aclipscomb (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} aclipscomb) wrote,@ 2006-06-21 10:34:00 |
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13 Moons: #7
13 Moons: #7
There are times the weight gets too heavy, when it's more than I can bear. Times when I cannot handle the distance between my self and the rest of the world.
I've tried, lord knows I've tried, to be shed of this.
Some days, it's a burden I can carry with no problem. Other days, weeks, months, years even getting out of bed in the morning is a struggle.
Early on, when I woke up in that trench in France, I tried to kill myself. I dove into clouds of mustard gas, stood in front of enemy machine gun emplacements, ran towards and not away from the doppler-shifted whistle of incoming artillery. I always survived. The men in my unit feared me - those with me tended to die, but I was always lucky, escaping without a scratch.
The first time I did it myself, I placed a revolver in my mouth and pulled the trigger. The round blew open the back of my head, splattering the trench behind me with brains and blood. I went black, then woke up hours later, wounds healed and ravenous. I jumped in front of a moving train and came to at the morgue. I drank poison and simply vomited blood for the rest of the afternoon.
The silver letter opener was the most painful - I've still got a scar from that over my heart - but since then, the Wolf won't let me handle silver.
Tonight, I'm sitting here writing a letter, heavy chains wrapped around my body, hoping they'll hold again, hoping I won't wake up tomorrow morning covered in blood, or worse, with a full stomach. Tomorrow I'll mail this letter to you, O random stranger. I don't know why I wrote down your address, why I feel compelled to send you these letters, but I did, I do and I'll continue to do so.
Some people might envy me - I'm in good health, if you don't count my occasional shifts into a man-eating wolf. I'm over a century old and look as young as I did the day I was bitten. I don't care - it doesn't matter to me how much worse other people have it, what matters to me is how painful it is for me.
And, like I said, some days, it's not so bad. Tonight, though, tonight I feel every ounce of the weight of the last ninety years.
13 Moons: #7
There are times the weight gets too heavy, when it's more than I can bear. Times when I cannot handle the distance between my self and the rest of the world.
I've tried, lord knows I've tried, to be shed of this.
Some days, it's a burden I can carry with no problem. Other days, weeks, months, years even getting out of bed in the morning is a struggle.
Early on, when I woke up in that trench in France, I tried to kill myself. I dove into clouds of mustard gas, stood in front of enemy machine gun emplacements, ran towards and not away from the doppler-shifted whistle of incoming artillery. I always survived. The men in my unit feared me - those with me tended to die, but I was always lucky, escaping without a scratch.
The first time I did it myself, I placed a revolver in my mouth and pulled the trigger. The round blew open the back of my head, splattering the trench behind me with brains and blood. I went black, then woke up hours later, wounds healed and ravenous. I jumped in front of a moving train and came to at the morgue. I drank poison and simply vomited blood for the rest of the afternoon.
The silver letter opener was the most painful - I've still got a scar from that over my heart - but since then, the Wolf won't let me handle silver.
Tonight, I'm sitting here writing a letter, heavy chains wrapped around my body, hoping they'll hold again, hoping I won't wake up tomorrow morning covered in blood, or worse, with a full stomach. Tomorrow I'll mail this letter to you, O random stranger. I don't know why I wrote down your address, why I feel compelled to send you these letters, but I did, I do and I'll continue to do so.
Some people might envy me - I'm in good health, if you don't count my occasional shifts into a man-eating wolf. I'm over a century old and look as young as I did the day I was bitten. I don't care - it doesn't matter to me how much worse other people have it, what matters to me is how painful it is for me.
And, like I said, some days, it's not so bad. Tonight, though, tonight I feel every ounce of the weight of the last ninety years.
